


Deconstruction

by mellyflori



Category: Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World (2003)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flogging, M/M, Mild S&M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 03:56:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1251841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori/pseuds/mellyflori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stephen could tell you that he is practicing a bit of deconstruction, unraveling of the braids of rope as an investigation of how it is put together. He could tell you that seeing how something comes apart tells you everything about how it is put together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deconstruction

There is something meditative in the way Stephen’s hands move over the rope. Not rope, he corrects himself, line. He had gone to the quartermaster and asked for a section of old rope and been told that there were few ropes on the ship, surely the Doctor meant to ask for line. 

The Quartermaster had passed him a two-foot section of un-tarred rigging line. Stephen had felt it settle into his palm and known this would be perfect. Now, in the light of his study lantern, he is playing out the knots and braids and listening to Blakeney read to the patients still in sickbay. 

Familiar motions now, the threading of his fingers through the line and Stephen’s mind begins to wander. Dinner in Jack’s cabin this evening had been a stilted and quiet affair. None of the jovial companionship of officers and fresh-cheeked midshipmen. This had been just the two of them and there had been no talk of music. Jack’s mind had clearly been elsewhere.

“Dear, I fear you are not with me tonight. Your mind is troubled and I would wish you unburdened. What worries at you?”

Jack, standing at the stern windows, had neither tensed nor relaxed. He had turned slowly to face Stephen. “Have you spoken with Nagle?”

Whatever Stephen had been expecting, this was not it. “I have, but only briefly. He preferred that his mess-mates should care for his welts so I gave him a tincture to dab on the sores and left him be.”

“Is he...” Jack had broken off, frustrated. “Stephen you know I don’t like to use you as a spy. I detest the idea of needing an informant on my own ship so feel free to tell me to mind my own affairs, but I must ask. Did he express any feelings regarding his punishment?”

“No. Not as I could see. He was a bit sore but joking with his mates by the time I’d finished.”

Jack’s forehead rested against his right wrist, leaning into the raised and latched stern windows. The nervous flex and clench of the fingers on that hand and the tension in Jack’s forehead told Stephen that though this might be the answer that Jack was hoping for it had not settled his mind. Stephen had risen from his chair to stand beside Jack. He kept his voice low, the ship seems to be a whisper chamber at times and the men have good ears. “Jack, is this what has been weighing on you?”

“I’m not a flogging Captain, Stephen. I dislike it intensely. As I told you before, I know it needs to happen, order must be maintained. But I’ve been through it myself and the sight of a man being strapped to the grating, especially one with as trivial a violation as Nagle’s, still makes me uneasy.”

“Surely, Brother, having been through it you know yourself how quickly such things pass.” He had settled his hand over Jack’s far shoulder, jostling him slightly to make sure that Jack was paying attention. “Floggings are a part of naval life for them, as they were for you in your misspent youth.” Stephen’s attempt at levity had fallen on deaf ears and he had retreated to logic once again. 

“They violate the Articles of War and punishment follows. It is this kind of consistency that makes this life possible for them. The watches are the same, the tasks are the same, and the punishments are predictable. It is painful, certainly, but not nearly as terrible as the chaos of unpredictability. It is a release for them, a penance. Can you imagine the weight on them if they were not punished?”

Jack’s face was a mask of neutrality but the tremble along his shoulder had shown Stephen that his words were finding a home. “Nagle is a good and loyal man. How would it be for him if he were made the exception? How would his mind be easy if he were to know that he had failed in his duty, failed in his role, and not been punished?”

Jack scrubbed his face over the back of his hand, resting lips against his knuckles and frowning.

“No Jack, you were not over-harsh. His Majesty’s Navy allows its men a fresh start in the eyes of their officers and their King. It may seem distasteful to you that this catharsis comes with being strapped to the grating and being lashed, but imagine no chance for this new beginning at all.”

Now, in his study, hours later, Stephen remembers how those words had felt in his mouth, echoing in his head. And how Jack had nodded, understanding, but still frowned. 

Stephen could tell you that he is practicing a bit of deconstruction, unraveling of the braids of rope as an investigation of how it is put together. He could tell you that seeing how something comes apart tells you everything about how it is put together. The truth is that he is wrapping strips of scrap leather around the top of the section of line, smoothing out the remaining inches of strands, feeling it’s weight in his hand because he suspects something is coming. He wants to be prepared.

When the strands lay flat and the leather wraps are secured Stephen lays the rope flat across his desk and rests his chin on his folded arms. From this angle the rope covers his horizon and while he stares at it Stephen barely feels his eyelids grow heavy.

He isn’t sure what time it is when he wakes. The candle has sputtered but not gone out. It is the candle, in fact, which has woken him. The wax has finally overflowed the lantern lip and dripped onto the back of his hand as he slept. Stephen wakes hissing in pain and the adrenaline surges in him. Rubbing his hand Stephen catches sight of his evening’s work. Seeing it laid out, nearly posed, on his desk calms Stephen’s heart and he strokes the strands once, twice, before blowing out the candle and retiring to his hammock.

The morning is painfully bright against Stephen’s sleep-deprived eyes. His joints are aching and the offer of coffee is more welcome than on other days. With the rigging of church and the informal memorial service for Hollum behind them Jack is working with the Midshipmen on their math and gesturing randomly towards the horizon. The ship is settled again and if her Captain is still troubled it does not show in the rigging. 

Stephen takes his coffee to the stern rail and stands watching the wake spread behind them. Long moments later Jack joins him. “Stephen, good morning. We’re making fine time with this new wind.” 

“I see, yes. I’m not sure I understand all of the mechanics behind it but the wind does seem to help.”

Jack’s smirk is visible even in profile. After a long moment he speaks again. “I won’t be able to join you on your rounds today, I’m afraid this wind has given me several tasks for the afternoon.”

“Of course, I’ll send word if there is anything you need to concern yourself with.”

“Much obliged.” 

Stephen turns to watch Jack’s face. His expressions are serious, controlled. It could be the range of tasks ahead of him today. He pretends not to notice the look of guilt that passes behind Jack’s eyes. If the source of this wind troubles Jack, if Jack thinks price paid for it seems too high Stephen is willing to leave that unspoken for the moment. Stephen suspects that their conversation last night is not quite finished. 

_________________________

Jack’s clerk, when he comes, is breathless and red-cheeked. Jack has no doubt had him jumping all day. “Doctor, Captain says would you join him after dinner?”

Somewhere, Stephen knows, Jack is wolfing down cold sandwiches and suffering Killick’s tut-tutting. The idea of this makes him smile a bit. 

“Give the Captain my regards, I should like that very much.”

For the next few hours Stephen busies himself with specimens and barely notices the dinner Padeen sets next to him. It is some time later when he sits to stretch his back, wiggle his fingers, and rub at his eyes. Stephen wonders briefly if he’s left Jack enough time for all of his charts and watch schedules and plucks a book from his shelf in case he hasn’t. 

The book, along with the bound and unbraided rope is tucked into his haversack as he blows out the lantern candle. This is presumptuous, Stephen knows, but if he is not wrong, if his suspicions are correct, he does not want to have to come back for it. Whatever Jack must summon up in himself will not survive Stephen leaving the Great Cabin.

Surprise is as quiet as she gets. The creak of ropes against eyebolts as the hammocks swing and the slap and thud of bare feet on the deck above echo in the berthing deck. Stephen’s feet on the ladder barely dent the noise around him and he can hear the officers launching into another song. 

The first sign that Stephen’s suspicions may have been well founded is the absence of the Marines at his door. The dim flicker of candlelight can be seen through the curtained windows but no one is moving inside. Stephen knocks and opens, waiting only long enough to hear Jack mumble what might be “Come in.”

Jack is standing at the windows with his back to the door. As befitting a day this busy and an evening this informal he is wearing only his breeches, boots, and shirt. His hands, usually clasped behind him or braced against the ledge above the windows, are still at his sides. The fiddle and ‘cello are still in their cases, resting against the wall. The music stands are nowhere to be seen. Something else is amiss and it takes Stephen long moments to realize that the table has been upended and is resting against the wall to Jack’s study.

Hearing the latch catch on the door Jack turns. His face is steel; his eyes are blank. The windows are open and slight breeze nudges at the hair around Jack’s face that has come loose from his queue.

There is the barest hint of a question as Stephen says “Jack.”

Jack swallows and his chin juts out. The tendons in his neck begin to show and his throat bobs as he swallows.

Stephen covers the few feet to stand facing Jack. Now it really is a question, but quietly as though Jack might be spooked like a nervous horse. “Jack?”

This close Stephen can see that Jack’s eyes aren’t blank. They’re terrified. Jack’s right arm comes up and his palm opens. Across it are two small ropes, each with a slipknot in one end and the other end dipped in wax to keep it from unraveling. With his lips closed against words the plea is only in Jack’s face, in the clench of his jaw and the smallest movement of his eyes. And then, so quietly he isn’t sure Jack actually says it, “Stephen.”

Stephen realizes how right he was. Wishing, almost, that he hadn’t been. But that will not do now. Jack, for all his strength and size needs him now, and needs him to be the strong one. Stephen’s chin comes up, almost a mirror of Jack’s. 

If there are any doubts left in Stephen’s mind they vanish like smoke when he follows Jack’s sudden flick of the eyes. There, in the beam above where the head of Jack’s table would be, are eyebolts for the heads of two hammocks. They are greater than five feet apart but the length of the rope will work perfectly. Jack must have measured them. He must have tested their length and strength. There is nothing but understanding in Stephen’s eyes as he reaches out and takes the ropes from Jack’s hand.

Stephen’s fingers slide the waxed end of the rope through the eyebolt and knot it off, a knot even a lubber like he can manage, to keep them from slipping through. While Stephen is fixing the ropes and shedding his jacket and scarf, Jack pulls his shirt off over his head, tossing it to a corner of the stern window seats. This done, Jack stands quite still, as though the enormity of this is washing over him in waves. His eyes move from one rope to another and then finally to Stephen’s face. Stephen takes his hand, feeling their palms warm and dry against each other. Sliding his fingers up Stephen takes Jack’s wrist and pulls him to where the ropes are hanging, innocuously, from the beam.

Jack’s wrist goes into the slipknot and a quick tug brings it tight around him. Stephen turns Jack to face the stern windows and repeats his actions with the rope on the other side, then comes to stand in front of Jack. Jack is, Stephen knows, unutterably beautiful like this. His hands are clenching around the ropes and his eyes are wide. His mouth is set and the big muscles in his jaw are moving under the skin. The pull in his shoulders makes shadows move across his chest and a few strands of hair are already clinging to the sweat across his forehead. Stephen smooths the hairs away and watches Jack tense under his fingers. He considers, briefly, asking if Jack is sure about this but stops himself. Jack has put himself in Stephen’s hands and the fact that he won’t be asked for permission is part of that.

Stephen pulls his haversack from the floor near his feet so that Jack can see what he’s about to do. Jack, Stephen supposes, must have trusted him to find something appropriate. Perhaps he might have suggested Stephen use the belt from his dress uniform. From the widening of his eyes he certainly didn’t expect Stephen to pull the flogger from his bag. Jack’s eyes focus on the sight of Stephen’s hand around the leather handle wrappings and Stephen’s fingers combing out the tangles in the strands.

Another flick of Jack’s eyes has Stephen walking over to look in the door of the toilet room. The only thing in there is the bucket of sea water kept in there to rinse down the crude plumbing. Ah, yes. The rope will not cut, but the water will sting as though it had. Stephen dunks the strands of rope into the water, soaking them. That Jack can take this is without question, that he has asked Stephen to give it to him nearly brings tears to Stephen’s eyes.

Stephen puts a hand on Jack’s shoulder strokes out along Jack’s arm as he walks around to Jack’s back. He strokes his hand down Jack’s back, feeling the skin, never breaking contact. Stephen fancies that this will help Jack. He hopes he is right. The flogger is dripping onto the deck and Stephen sees Jack flinch slightly as he gives the rope an experimental shake and water hits Jack’s back.

His hand gripping and flexing around the handle, Stephen stands very still, waiting. Jack’s breathing speeds up, then slows down again, becoming regular and even. A shudder begins in Jack’s neck and works it’s way down his back, along his shoulders, out his fingers. The shake of his head brings more hair loose around Jack’s face; the blonde is nearly white in the light from the lantern. Jack’s chin drops to his chest and his fingers go slightly slack around the ropes.

This, then, is what Stephen has been waiting for and he brings the whip down across Jack’s back in a wide arc. Water sprays across the room, catching the light and the feeling of impact travels up Stephen’s arm. Jack makes no sound save for a soft grunt across his teeth, his head flies up, his hair slinging back. If Stephen could see Jack’s face he would find that Jack’s eyes go wide at the sound of the whip and then his face goes tense and shuttered against the pain. There is a fierce determination and then, suddenly, a surrender.

Jack breathes in, tightens his fingers around the ropes, and then relaxes into them. Stephen watches the great muscles under his shoulders, across his back go slack and quiet. Jacks back arches slightly towards Stephen and his chin drops again. The sight of this great and powerful man bending into Stephen’s blows, trusting Stephen’s strength, letting go of his own, fills Stephen’s heart to overflowing.

Stephen’s second blow waits for Jack’s acquiescence and no longer. The rope comes down across Jack’s shoulders again, leaving angry red marks as it drags free. The third and fourth blows settle into a rhythm broken only by groans and soft cries from Jack, and Stephen finds himself able to take in more than just the feel of the whip in his hand and the sight of Jack’s back taking his marks.

The way the rope moves through the air sounds like wind in the rigging high atop the mainmast. The way the rope strikes his flesh sounds like the men beating their shirts clean over the side of the deck. Stephen hears this and recognizes it. He wishes Jack could share this with him. For this moment, Stephen knows, the only sounds Jack hears are his own breathing echoing in his head and the rush of pain along his veins.

Five. Six. Stephen is counting under his breath. At seven Jack’s feet slip a little as he lunges forward under the blow and Stephen stops his rhythm to check on a man too proud and strong to admit this might be more than he can stand.

Jack’s chest is shining with sweat and the tracks of it rolling down to the waistband of his breeches are bright in the light of the lantern. His face is curtained and hidden by his own hair and Stephen brushes it away gently, tucking it behind his ears. Jack flinches at first and then leans into the touch. Stephen’s eyes meet Jack’s and the tears Jack has been holding back roll, first the left, then the right, down his face to hang off his jaw.

Stephen is nearly undone by what he sees in front of him. The pain is etched in every sweat trail, every tear track. Jack doesn’t know that on his face, in his pain, is so much love. So much love. For his ship, his men, for Stephen, for Sophie and his children, for Nagle and all those men who must face endless days of mourning, for Warley and every other face that has ever disappeared beneath the waves. So much love.

Jack’s face smoothes again and Stephen remembers that he has five strokes left. It was a dozen lashes for Nagle on deck, and Jack will be expecting a dozen now. Stephen does not plan to disappoint him. He crosses around behind Jack and takes up his position again. The whip is no longer dripping, the floor is covered with spots of drying water and the smell of salt and sweat mingle in the air. Jack’s back does not arch this time; he stands slack in the ropes, his fingers loose around the bonds.

Stephen is dimly aware of the strain in his shoulder but the adrenaline is singing in his blood and he can’t stop now. Jack lunges forward again as the sound of impact echoes in the cabin and Stephen hears the creak of the ropes in the eyebolts as Jack recovers in time for the next blow. Eight. Nine. Ten.

As his arm pulls back for the eleventh Stephen sees the welts of the rope rising across Jack’s back. Even from here Stephen can feel the heat of Jack’s skin and can nearly see the throb of blood raising the marks. The blow comes down hard across the middle of Jack’s back and Stephen can see Jack’s calves flex as he goes forward on his toes. The sound of Jack’s fast open-mouthed breathing fills the silence before the last strike as Stephen settles his feet again.

As before there is the sound of the rope cutting the air, the sound of it striking flesh, and the strain of the bonds as Jack’s body bends under the whip. But with this last one there is more. Jack’s head comes up, nearly falling back, and the room is suddenly filled with the roar of one great cry. It is nearly primal with pain. The noise carries long past the end of the blow, past Stephen dropping the whip to the floor. As Stephen comes around to face Jack again he is finally dissolving into deep gulping sobs. 

Stephen stands still, a quiet sentinel, until Jack’s cries subside. Finally, when there is only the shaking of his marked and muscled shoulders, Stephen reaches up and loosens the knot around Jack’s left wrist. Jack can’t feel the extent of the pain yet, the adrenaline is still racing in him but the force of his catharsis has left him weak and hanging in the ropes. When his arm comes free Jack slumps against Stephen and it is with no small difficulty that Stephen frees Jack’s other hand.

With Jack’s arms around his shoulders and neck Stephen wraps his own arms tight around Jack’s lower back where there are few, if any, lash marks. Jack’s face is buried in Stephen’s neck and as Jack’s shoulders still Stephen feels the press of a soft kiss against the skin at the join of his shoulder and neck. 

Stephen doesn’t want words marking the moment, but a soft sigh escapes his lips at the touch. He wonders, briefly, if this is the closest he’s come to a true healing in all his years at sea. Stephen is glad of their similar height when Jack sags into him again and then brings his head up, meeting Stephen’s eyes. The rush of blood to Stephen’s face reminds him that Jack is not the only one with adrenaline coursing in him, not the only one caught in this moment. 

When Stephen lowers his lips to Jack’s cheek he can smell the salt of water, tears, sweat. He can smell the heat of Jack’s skin. His kiss is meant to be fraternal. His touch is supposed to be a sign that all is well, that Stephen knows the enormity of this and treasures it. It is the small taste of Jack’s skin on his tongue as Stephen licks his lips that turns the moment to something else.

A longer kiss on the other cheek and Stephen can feel Jack sigh under him, a forgotten sob hitching his breath. Jack turns his face to Stephen’s and their lips meet, softly, perfectly. The taste of Jack opening under him is everything Stephen has imagined in dark nights and stolen moments, but he feels momentarily lost, this wasn’t meant to be the purpose of this evening. But then, surely, the breaking apart must have a putting back together.

Stephen feels the press of Jack against him driving him backwards and catches himself on the stern window seats, lowering them to their knees on the floor. This, too, is fitting. A penitent man kneels. Jack’s hands are on his face now and his kisses are coming fast and hot. Stephen smoothes the hair back from Jack’s face, off his shoulders, and tries to keep pace.

He slides his fingers down Jack’s face, over his neck, out his shoulders still throbbing from the flogger. Stephen’s hands trace the lines of sweat on Jack’s chest and come to rest on his hips as Jack sucks kisses along Stephen’s jaw and back to his lips. Jack presses into Stephen’s fingers, mirroring his arch into the whip. 

Stephen is not surprised at the feel of Jack hard in his breeches. That the release of emotions should be present in all its forms is something he would have expected if he’d thought about it, they are opposite sides of the same coin. It’s possible that he could give you an explanation for it but he has all he can do to fight losing himself to the feeling of Jack’s lips on his neck. This release is not for him. It is not Stephen’s moment to dissolve.

His fingers stroke Jack’s erection through the cloth and press harder as Jack moans softly and raises his hips into Stephen’s hand. Stephen continues the strokes, the pressure, and the touches until Jack’s body begins to tense again and his kisses become slack. Stephen pulls at Jack’s lower lip with his own mouth and then pulls back, taking Jack’s chin in his hands and meeting his eyes. In a moment of selfishness Stephen knows that if Jack is going to come together again in his release he wants to watch, wants Jack to see him in the moment after.

A press and grind of the heel of Stephen’s hand has the corners of Jack’s eyes tensing and with another three or four fast strokes Jack is panting, his fingers tightening on Stephen’s shoulders. Jack’s eyelids flutter, threatening to close, but then his eyes connect with Stephen’s again and Stephen feels a pulsing throb under his hand. An orgasm this strong in a man Jack’s size is accompanied by powerful racking shakes, but Stephen’s eyes hold Jack’s throughout them.

Stephen isn’t aware that Jack has been holding his breath until he lets it out in a rush, collapsing into Stephen’s shoulder. Stephen’s own breath comes with a quiet shudder.

Kneeling nearly crumpled on the floor like this Stephen is aware of his own erection pressing painfully into his breeches. He can feel the pulse of it in time with the pulse of his kiss-swollen lips. Jack is slumped against him, very nearly lying in his lap with the tears still fresh on his cheeks. 

Stephen knows there will be time for his own tears later. Time for his own muffled cries in the dark as he remembers the sheen of candlelight on Jack’s skin, the sound of his panting heaving breaths, the feel of Jack’s lips on his own before they fell. 

Jack pulls back a bit to stare into Stephen’s face. In his eyes Stephen sees a kind of mild confusion. Not the torment from this afternoon but a sense that something minor but important is escaping him. It occurs to Stephen that Jack is searching for words. Stephen hopes it shows in his own eyes how unnecessary words are. Jack’s face calms and he sighs, exhausted. He brings his face forward, his forehead coming to rest against Stephen’s, their breath mingling.

Stephen smiles softly and brushes a hair from Jack’s cheek. Jack doesn’t know that the word he is searching for is “absolution.” But Stephen does.

**Author's Note:**

> This is old but beloved and needed a home.


End file.
